


Come What May

by Jevvica



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Secrets are Bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-18 05:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2336786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jevvica/pseuds/Jevvica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We're protecting him, but he won't thank us for it.  He'll see it as betrayal.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: Porthos knows about Aramis and the Queen and finally it all comes out. I've been wanting to do this for a while and I hinted at it in “That is the Cost”.
> 
> So yeah, spoilers for Season 1.
> 
> I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

 

Aramis rested his elbows on the small table and watched Athos, who was standing like stone by the door.

“We're protecting Porthos, but he won't thank us for it. He'll see it as betrayal.”

“You said to keep it quiet,” responded Aramis.

“I did,” acknowledged Athos. “And I was wrong. On one hand, you never tell him about you and the Queen and it comes out and he'll know you kept it from him. And he'll never forgive you for it. On the other, it stays a secret forever and it festers.”

“He never has to know,” insisted Aramis.

“You think he doesn't already? Porthos is no fool and you've not been subtle. If not what exactly, he knows _something_ has happened.”

“If this is found out, it won't matter how angry he is or that he'll never forgive me. I'll be dead.” Athos' face was cold and stony.

“Take this from someone who has some experience in the matter. Your death won't free him from that anger. He'll carry it for the rest of his life. It will hollow him out. The laughter and the warmth that fill him will turn to silence and ashes. Do you want that? Would you wish that upon Porthos?”

“No,” answered Aramis shortly. Athos' voice softened.

“He loves you, Aramis. But even if he didn't, I doubt we will ever meet a man more loyal or a heart more kind. Trust in that.” Athos replaced his hat and began to step out of the door. “When has Porthos ever disappointed you?”

“Never,” murmured Aramis to the now empty room. “And perhaps that makes this all the harder. It is I who must disappoint him.” He tugged at his hair, staring down at the table. “But I will tell Porthos.”

“Tell me what?”

Aramis froze.

A dozen lies filled his mind. Stories and excuses readied themselves, anything to avoid this. But they all evaporated as he looked up at the door and the look on Porthos' face.

Aramis had no idea how long he'd been listening or what he expected, but it didn't matter.

Athos was right.

Porthos knew.

He'd known for some time. And he hadn't said anything. Hadn't revealed any hurt. But that changed now. His face tight, fists clenched. A dark storm boiled into Porthos' eyes: quick, ready, and had clearly been gaining strength, just out of sight.

“Tell me what?” Porthos repeated, his voice entirely different, harder. “Tell me how you committed treason? How you betrayed your country, your king, and your comrades? Or how you lied about it for months?”

Aramis held up his hands, but Porthos didn't stop.

“What!?” thundered Porthos. “What is it you are goin' to say?”

“I wanted to tell you!” yelled Aramis, rising to his feet. “I wanted to tell you, Porthos, I did. But the fewer people who knew, the better.”

“That 'cause I can't be trusted? Is that it? Not smart enough to keep my mouth shut...”

“I never said that. I never...” protested Aramis, even as Porthos pushed on.

“...I'm just a stupid gutter rat who don't understand the affairs o' the nobility. Don't deserve to be included...”

“No!” bellowed Aramis. “You know I don't think that about you, that I never did! Don't you dare make this about anything else.” He ran his hands through his hair roughly. Aware of how loud they had gotten, he lowered his voice. “Yes, be angry with me. I deserve it. But never doubt I kept it from you in order to protect you! No matter how much I wanted to tell you.”

“I've known you a long time, hmm? And the smart thing never stopped you from doin' as you pleased.” Porthos shook his head and pressed his lips together, pulling them into a frown. “Nah. If you wanted to tell me, you would've.”

“What I want is to not have you hang along side me,” said Aramis hotly.

“All these years,” began Porthos, his fury seemingly slipping away. “All these years I've called you brother and I would've gladly died by your side.”

“I did not set out to deceive you,” appealed Aramis. “I did not mean for any of this.”

“I'm sure it's an entertainin' tale,” said Porthos with a bitter smile. “Full o' sweet words and daring do. But I'm not in the mood.” He turned and walked out the door.

And Aramis could not find any words to call him back.

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Athos stepped quietly from the shadows as Porthos came barreling from Aramis' room. He hadn't heard everything, so with luck, no one else was the wiser. But he'd heard the tone and the volume. And he could see the tempest on Porthos' face.

“I advised him not to tell you. Or anyone, for that matter.”

“So?” Athos tilted his head in understanding.

“Touche. Aramis does as he will, no matter what we advise.” Athos paused, staring hard at Porthos. “Is it so very hard to conceive that we want to protect you?” Porthos snorted, but Athos went on. “You would do anything to keep us safe. I know that as I know the sun will rise. Can you not believe the same of Aramis and of myself?” Porthos' scowl deepened, but he did not turn away.

Athos slowly closed the distance between them, laying a hand on Porthos' arm.

“All for one, Porthos. Come what may.” Porthos flinched under his hand, but slowly the frown relaxed. Instead of angry, Porthos looked deflated and tired.

He drew himself back up and nodded once. “Just need some time, yeah?” Athos squeezed his arm briefly and let go. He watched Porthos walk across the courtyard and disappear into the night.

* * *

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

“What's going on?” asked d'Artagnan, sitting down to breakfast next to Aramis.

“Hmm?” D'Artagnan motioned to the men bustling about the courtyard. “Oh. Training exercise, I believe. Becotte is taking a few Musketeers out with several new recruits.”

“What sort of training?”

“Wilderness survival, hunting, tracking. But to be perfectly honest,” said Aramis, lowering his voice, “It has a lot to do with weeding.”

“Weeding? Like...gardening?”

“No,” laughed Aramis. “We have a reputation, yes?” D'Artagnan nodded. “We are respected. This is a sought after position.” D'Artagnan nodded again. Aramis gestured vaguely with his knife. “Many men come here, the ones who weren't soldiers before, come with ideas of mixing with nobles and private conversations with the King. They don't dream about being wet for days at a time, sweltering in parade duty, freezing in some battle somewhere. They don't think about killing and cooking their own food, mending their own gear. Those that make it through a few weeks of...education and still want to be Musketeers? Well, those are the men we're interested in.”

“I didn't have to go on any training exercise.”

“Oh really? Were the weeks before you gained your commission so very dull?” asked Aramis.

“I should think not,” responded Athos, appearing next to the table.

“Definitely not,” said d'Artagnan.

“Not all training is overt,” said Athos, surveying the courtyard. “And fear not, eventually you'll be chosen to help lead one of these exercises.”

“Like Porthos?” Aramis looked at d'Artagnan.

“What do you mean?” The young man motioned toward the stable. Aramis felt his stomach drop as he saw Porthos leading his horse, laden with packs. Aramis stood and looked at Athos.

“Did you know about this?” he asked, barely containing his ire.

“I did not,” said Athos quietly. “Though I cannot say I am surprised.”

Aramis turned and walked across the courtyard toward Porthos.

“What are you doing?” Aramis asked when he was close enough.

“What's it look like?”

“You hate wilderness training.”

“Never said that.”

“Yes, actually, you did. I believe your exact words were 'I hate spending days in the middle of nowhere for no other reason than to be in the middle of nowhere.'” Porthos gave a final, exasperated tug on the cinch of his saddle.

“Aramis...”

“Don't do this.” Aramis tried to sound reasonable, but he couldn't hide the edge of panic anymore. “Please, Porthos, I'll do whatever you want. Just don't go.” The tall man studied him for a long moment.

“'M not punishin' you. Just need time away.” Aramis clenched his jaw, teeth aching. Perhaps it was foolish, but he couldn't shake the feeling.

“This is a bad idea.”

“It's just trainin'.” Porthos gave him a knowing look. “It ain't Savoy.”

Of course Porthos would understand his fear.

“Where?”

“Paimpont Forest in Brittany. And I'm goin'.” Porthos' dark eyes weren't angry, but they were settled.

“Be careful,” said Aramis meaningfully.

Porthos smirked as he swung up into his saddle.

“You know me, very soul of caution.” Aramis watched him join the ranks of Musketeers and recruits leaving the garrison.

“I do know you,” murmured Aramis to himself. “And no, you're not.”

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was nearly two weeks later when d'Artagnan burst into Aramis' room, breathless.

“Something's happened... Becotte has returned from the training mission...” Aramis stood, his heart thundering in his chest.

“Everyone else?” D'Artagnan shook his head quickly.

“No, just Becotte and two others. They're in Treville's office.”

Aramis didn't remember leaving his room or crossing the courtyard. But he found himself held firmly at the base of the stairs by Athos.

“Becotte is giving his report. Let's give him time to finish.” Aramis looked at the restraining hand on his chest and then up at Athos' cool eyes.

“Something's wrong.”

“We don't know that.”

“Really?” snapped Aramis. “A senior Musketeer abandons his charges and fellows, rides back to Paris days ahead of schedule and you think there is anyway this could be good?”

“I did not say that. I merely said we don't know what has happened. The last thing the Captain or Becotte will benefit from is you as a distraction.” The palm against his chest was very warm, as if the rest of him was chilled. “If our friends have need of us, we will know it, soon enough.” Aramis took a deep breath and then another. He took a single step back and ran a hand through his hair.

Aramis did not miss the look that Athos threw at d'Artagnan. The young man had clearly not been meant to tell him anything. D'Artagnan chewed on his thumbnail and shrugged.

Treville's door swung open and every head in the courtyard looked up.

“Athos, a word, if you please.” The Captain glanced around for a moment. “Aramis, d'Artagnan, you might as well come along.”

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Becotte stood to the side of the Captain's desk. He was pale, but there were red patched on his face and hands. His cloak was blacked and smudged. When he brought his gaze up from the floor, his eyes were irritated and swollen.

“The training party ran into some trouble in Brittany.” Treville's voice was serious, but not too terribly grave. Athos wondered if it was solely for their benefit. Becotte looked haunted enough for Athos to believe it. “A forest fire caught them off guard and hemmed them in.”

“A fire?” blurted d'Artagnan.

“There was no warning,” croaked Becotte, his voice rough. “A smell of smoke and then...it was all around us.”

“Becotte, you don't have to...” interrupted Treville, but Becotte continued, like he hadn't heard. From the distant look in his eyes, Athos doubted he had.

“The leaves burned and fire rained from the sky. The horses were panicking. It was so hot and we couldn't breathe. The smoke...the ash...” Becotte shook himself and glanced around, uncomfortable. “We managed to cut through to a creek bed, followed the water. It helped but...then the trees began to fall.” He fell silent then, like he had no words to describe it any further.

“Where are the others?” asked Athos carefully.

“Treffendel. Village a couple of hours from the edge of the forest. Thierion, Giroux, and I were the best fit to ride.” He held out his hands, covered in red patches and angry blisters.

“There were a great many injuries. Lots of little burns like these. Irritated eyes, sore throats and coughs. Some bad burns, men struck by falling limbs. Broken bones. Several of the new lads were thrown from their horses.”

“But no one died.” said Treville, stating what he clearly already knew.

“No,” confirmed Becotte quietly. But Athos heard the unspoken remainder.

_Yet._

Becotte was a seasoned soldier. He knew the way burns could behave. Seemingly sound and then just as quickly festering. Athos knew it, too.

“We came back for a wagon and supplies to bring everyone home,” finished Becotte.

“What about Porthos?” Aramis had been uncharacteristically silent the entirety of the conversation. His question was quiet and carefully controlled.

Becotte rubbed at his red eyes wearily.

Athos slid his gaze toward Aramis, but the man hadn't moved. His face was closed and implacable.

“I said the trees were falling?” Treville nodded encouragingly. “We were nearing the edge of the forest. We'd lost several horses, men injured...it was...” He shook his head. “It was confusion and panic and barely held together. One of the trees fell into our midst. Trapped Rodes underneath it.” Becotte looked up at Athos. “Porthos lifted it off of him. Like it weighed nothing. Like the world wasn't burning down around us.”

Something fierce and proud surged through Athos at that. He expected no less from Porthos.

“He had his gloves on, but he was still badly burned. As was Rodes.”

“Athos,” said Treville, “I want you to go to Brittany and bring everyone back.” He pulled out a large purse from a locked drawer in his desk. “For medicines, supplies, lodgings. Whatever you need. Take Aramis and d'Artagnan with you.”

“Give me time to ready a fresh horse,” said Becotte, “and we'll depart.”

“You rode hard to get here, Becotte,” pronounced Treville. “Let Athos handle the rest.”

“With all due respect,” rasped Becotte, “It was my mission. My men. There is no way I'm not going back for them.” Treville studied Becotte for a moment and then looked at Athos.

Athos nodded minutely. He understood Becotte's conviction. Just as he understood he was going to be there to bring Porthos home.

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Athos watched as Aramis ran his hands over the horse's hip, examining the burns he found there. Aramis was silent and dark, a manner far removed from his usual self. Athos had seen Aramis harden when the situation called for it, or when he was worried. This was more than that. This was guilt, and Athos knew it well.

“Don't.” Aramis was looking at him then.

“Don't do what, exactly?”

“Say it isn't my fault. Because we both know it is.” Athos smothered the desire to sigh.

“Truly? Did you set off and start a forest fire when I wasn't looking?”

“The only reason he was there,” said Aramis carefully, “was because he was angry with me. I drove him away.”

“Let's entertain, for just a moment, that you could force Porthos to do _anything_ ,” responded Athos. “Even if you could, do you think Porthos would be sorry he was there?” Aramis' brow furrowed in confusion and waited for Athos to go on.

“How many people in the entirely of the regiment, could lift a tree like Becotte described? Two? Maybe three? How many of them were on that mission?”

“Only Porthos,” murmured Aramis.

“You might have been the reason he went,” said Athos quietly. “But I'm not certain you were the reason he was there.” Aramis studied him.

“A higher power?” Aramis quirked an eyebrow with a hint of a smile. “Not something I ever expected from you, Athos.” Athos merely tilted his head and looked out beneath the brim of his hat.

“Are you ready?” Aramis let out a breath and moved to his horse. He did not turn back as he spoke.

“What if he doesn't want to see me?”

“It is not in him to be fickle,” answered Athos. “He might still be angry. But I believe his affections run far deeper than any ire.” He looked at Aramis' tense back. “The two of you will sort it, Aramis. You always do.”

Aramis lifted his head and led his horse from the stable and Athos followed after.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, trying to blend 17th century medicine with modern knowledge is tricksy.
> 
> I like to be well-researched and as authentic as possible, so I Googled images of burns.   
> I do not recommend it.

It was three days ride to Treffendel.

They made the trip in little more than two.

Even given how tired they and their horses were, it took everything in Aramis not to gallop when the small village came into sight.

“There is an inn, the owner was kind enough, given that we took it over utterly,” said Becotte, tall and tense in his saddle, but steady in his pace.

“Any doctor?” asked Aramis.

“A local healer, Madame Tuel. She is quite capable. She brooks no fools, I can tell you that.”

An older woman with dark blonde hair pulled into a braid was walking toward the inn holding a basket when the Musketeers rode up and dismounted. Becotte took off his hat and bowed deeply. The woman smiled slightly, but clearly put no weight on the gesture.

“Monsieur Becotte, welcome back.”

“Madame Tuel, how are my men?”

“I was just about to make a round, come along and I'll tell you of them.” She looked startled as all four of them moved to follow her. “And your friends?”

“They've come to help.”

“Well and good, but I've work to do. I don't particularly need an audience.”

After an exchange of looks, d'Artagnan sighed.

“I'll see to the horses.”

“Madame, pardon me,” said Athos, “I must speak with the keeper of this inn. Do you know where I might find him?”

“Old Jacques was in the kitchen when last I saw him,” answered the healer, gesturing. Athos bowed and walked toward the outer kitchen door.

“If I may,” said Aramis, turning his hat in his hands. “I would accompany you, Madame Tuel.” He tried to look charming, but her green eyes were sharp and he felt exposed beneath them.

“Aramis often acts as a surgeon,” offered Becotte. “It is he who will see us back to Paris.”

“Then of course you should come,” agreed Madame Tuel briskly. “Follow me.”

She led them into the main room of the inn. Tables had been turned into beds, blankets and bed rolls attempting to make the space comfortable. To Aramis' great relief, most of the Musketeers and recruits seemed alert and greeted Becotte and Aramis genially.

Aramis scanned the room, but Porthos was no where to be seen. Panic fluttered to life in his stomach, but he forced it down. Madame Tuel visited with each man, changing dressings, applying ointments, giving tonics, and explaining to Aramis and Becotte as she did.

She was efficient, but kind. Aramis liked her.

“The others are upstairs,” explained Madame Tuel, moving toward the stairs. “Less rowdy. I've found Musketeers do not do quiet very well.”

She opened the door to one of the small rooms. Rodes, a recruit that had not been around the Musketeers long, was lying on the bed.

“I've kept young Rodes here asleep as much as possible. His burns are serious.”

“Is he in pain?” asked Becotte.

“No, that is part of the problem,” answered Madame Tuel. She pulled back the light, damp cloth covering Rodes' stomach. Aramis held himself steady, but it was bad. The burns were deep, sections of skin obliterated or blackened. Angry, red wounds with patches of white and yellow. The healer quickly replaced the cloth. “I do not know why, but with burns like these, there seems to be little pain. People do themselves worse harm for it, thinking they are not as hurt as they appear. But be certain, gentlemen, he is gravely ill.”

Aramis looked at the young man's flushed, sweating face.

“He is fevered.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I've been treating for the fever and for the loss of water, but even with the actual fire gone...” she paused, troubled. “It still burns.”

“If I may,” said Becotte roughly, “I would sit with him.”

“Please do,” said Madame Tuel. “There is a cloth and water, try to cool his fever, but do not touch the wounds.” Becotte nodded and slumped into the chair next to the bed.

Aramis looked at Madame Tuel as he quietly shut the door behind them.

“You seem to know a great deal about burns, madame.” She nodded, moving down the hallway to another room, blowing at a strand of hair that had escaped her braid.

“My father was a blacksmith, I grew up around heat and flame. I learned a great deal from him and by treating several of his apprentices, long before I began my own studies. It has served me well, but I must admit, you Musketeers have challenged me in many ways.” She opened the door with something like exasperated fondness. “Like this big brute.”

Aramis let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding at the sight of Porthos. He went immediately to the bed, eyes roaming over the seemingly sleeping form. There were small, red patches on his face and his eyes were puffy. His hands were wrapped and resting on his chest.

“Porthos?” he said quietly.

“He shouldn't be awake for a little while. I drugged him.” Aramis looked at her sharply. “He wouldn't rest, even after I moved him up here,” explained Madame Tuel. “Couldn't sit still, fussing at his skin, his hands, his eyes.”

The panic that Aramis had reined clawed up through his chest.

“What's wrong with his eyes?” She help up a restraining hand.

“Smoke and ash, but the real problem was that he wouldn't leave them be, constantly rubbing at them. I'm hoping they will be better when he wakes.”

Aramis stood fixed as she slowly unwrapped Porthos' hands. His palms were pink and swollen, shiny where the skin was tight. Splotches of red stood out glaringly among the yellowing blisters that spotted his fingers.

It was both better and worse than Aramis imagined. No peeking bones or black char. But it was still raw meat where his dearest friend's hand should be. The strongest and yet the gentlest hands he knew.

She hummed softly, applying an ointment gently and then loosely wrapping each finger and then palm in a clean bandage.

Madame Tuel looked up at him knowingly.

“This one is special to you.” Aramis blinked, tried to school his features. “Stop,” she admonished. “It's all over your face. From the moment you arrived. I just don't understand why you are trying to act differently.”

“He is my brother,” said Aramis simply.

“Then as his brother, I leave him to you,” she said as she stood. “I expect he'll wake soon and given how difficult he's been these past few days, it will be best if he does not wake alone, hmm?” She fixed a bowl of water that smelled of herbs and a clean cloth. “When he wakes, use this to ease his eyes. Don't let him touch them. Don't let him touch anything. He needs to be careful with his hands. I'll be around again in a few hours. Get him to drink some water, if you can.”

Aramis nodded and accepted the bowl. The healer opened the door to leave.

“Madame?” She turned in the doorway of the room. “Thank you. For all you have done for us.” She smiled at him and shut the door.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis judged it had been nearly two hours when Porthos showed signs of coming around. Athos and d'Artagnan had been up to check on them, but neither lingered. The room was small enough without added bodies. And Aramis was not good company.

He needed to hear Porthos' voice. Needed to see his eyes.

Needed it and feared it. Feared angry words and accusing looks.

Feared what would happen next.

But need outweighed the fear and he felt the smile break across his face as Porthos heaved a great sigh as he slowly woke. Aramis took the cloth and dipped it in the water Madame Tuel had left. He leaned in, but before he could say anything, Porthos spoke.

“Aramis.”

His name was an unsurprised sigh, soft and rough. Aramis steadied Porthos' head and gently wiped at his weeping, swollen eyelids.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Dunno,” Porthos answered with a hint of a shrug that turned into a wince, still not opening his eyes. “I always know when it's you.”

Aramis clenched the wet cloth is suddenly trembling fingers. He wiped at Porthos' eyes again, the water loosening the lids. Slowly, deep brown eyes emerged, not nearly so red as Aramis had feared.

“How do you feel?” asked Aramis, drinking in Porthos' gaze.

“Over-cooked,” huffed Porthos. Aramis smiled.

“I'm sure. But how do you really feel?” Porthos hesitated for a moment.

“Tired. My hands hurt.” For Porthos to admit it, the pain must have been considerable.

“I'll get something for the pain,” promised Aramis. “You haven't been resting.” Porthos narrowed his eyes.

“That blonde tyrant tell you that?”

“Madame Tuel is a fine healer, from what I have seen.”

“Hmph,” grunted Porthos. “Just tryin' to help the lads. She threw a fit, banished me up here.”

“How terrible, to have a bed and room to yourself,” teased Aramis, but he knew Porthos didn't do well alone.

“So I tried sittin' with Rodes. She didn't like that either, apparently, 'cause she brought me some wine and then I woke up here. What time is it?”

“Late afternoon.” Aramis pressed a hand to Porthos' chest as he tried to rise. “Everyone is fine. You are under rather strict orders to stay abed. And stop that,” Aramis stilled the hand that moved toward Porthos' eyes.

“On the tyrant's side, then is it?” grumbled Porthos.

“I'm on the side of you getting better,” corrected Aramis. “Your eyes don't look too bad to me, but best not to touch them. Or anything. Your hands are a mess.” Porthos' face clouded over, eyes distant.

“Didn't have a choice,” he said quietly. “The fire...it was like a living thing, changin' directions, movin' to cut us off. Never seen anythin' like it. When that tree come down...and Rodes was trapped and screaming...” Porthos shook his head abruptly. He looked at his bandaged hands. “Didn't have a choice.”

“You moved to protect a charge,” reassured Aramis. “As a true Musketeer would. It was a brave thing you did, Porthos.”

They both looked over as the door opened to reveal Athos. Porthos mustered a grin and Athos nearly returned it.

“How are you?” asked Athos.

“Been better,” said Porthos.

“Athos, I should find Madame Tuel,” Aramis said as he rose. “Watch the patient, would you? Don't let him do or touch anything.” Porthos bared his teeth, but it lacked any heat.

Aramis returned with Madame Tuel and a mug of tea.

“Awake again,” said the healer with a sigh. “Luckily, I've some help to keep you in line now. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” said Porthos, sounding suspiciously like a petulant child.

“Liar,” snapped Madame Tuel. “Your hands probably burn like the Devil himself.” She moved closer, holding his head firmly in her hands. “But your eyes do look better. Try not to undo it.” She motioned to Aramis and the tea. “You need to drink this.”

Porthos eyed the mug and her warily.

“No tricks, I promise,” added Aramis. “Just something to help with the pain.” Porthos didn't look convinced, but he let Athos prop him up and held out a wrapped hand for the tea.

“Most certainly not,” said Madame Tuel. “I do not know how to phrase this so that it may penetrate that hard head of yours, brute.” She bent and looked Porthos dead in the eye. “Your hands are badly damaged. Stop. Using. Them. If you ever want to handle a sword again.”

Aramis watched the blood drain from the big man's face. Athos reached out and rested a hand on Porthos' shoulder.

“Now,” said the healer, “drink.” She held the mug as Porthos wordlessly drained it. He stared at the floor, stricken. Madame Tuel leaned in again, but her voice was much softer. “I just want to see you heal. As do your friends. Let us care for you.” She straightened smoothly and walked out of the room.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos was sleeping again as the sun began to set, casting the room in warm gold.

“What is it?” Aramis looked up at Athos, who was studying him critically.

“What do you mean?”

“You're restless. More than usual.” Aramis didn't deny it. There were questions he had for Madame Tuel. Things he'd avoided, but was finally ready to hear the answers to.

“Will you stay with him? I believe I need to have a conversation with Madame Tuel.” Athos' nodded his understanding.

“You know I will.”

Aramis left the room and made his way out of doors into the cool evening air.

The healer was leaning over the village well, her hands braced on the edges. She looked weary. Aramis cleared his throat softly and bowed as she looked up.

“Good evening, Madame.”

“Monsieur Aramis, what can I do for you?” He resisted the impulse to run his hand through his hair and wished he'd brought his hat.

“I was hoping, out here, away from other ears...”

“You want to know who will live and how won't.”

“I would like your frank assessments, yes.”

“Becotte said you are their surgeon?”

“I am no doctor and I am no surgeon. What I have is the practical knowledge of a soldier. I want to know all I can. To help however I can.”

She nodded, but didn't straighten up, peering into the darkness of the well like her answers would be found there.

“The coughing and aching throats are nearly gone. With the burns, if infection can be avoided, the majority will recover. No more than scars and stories.” She smiled slightly, but it faded. “I worry about Defour's eyes. They're not getting better. I've rinsed them again and again, I can't find what ever it is.” She rubbed at her face and stood up.

“The broken bones show nothing unusual, I expect no trouble from them that time cannot mend.”

“Is Rodes going to recover?” She looked at him with her shrewd, emerald eyes and said nothing. She finished filling her bucket before she turned to meet his gaze.

“I can't say for certain,” she began quietly, “but burns like his? White and painless? They don't heal, monsieur.”

“Not ever?”

“If you can keep them from infection, if they are small enough, some do.” She looked pained and tired. “Usually the fever will take them first.” Aramis absorbed her words like a blow. Porthos would never have done differently, but Aramis knew that he would take it hard. The man Porthos had risked himself to save was most likely going to die anyway.

Aramis took a deep breath, steadying himself.

“Will Porthos' hands heal?”

The question that had smoldered in his thoughts since he'd seen the mess of Porthos' hands and had flared at her words about handling a sword.

Madame Tuel nodded.

“If we keep them clean and from going bad? I expect so. They will be scarred, that is certain. Possibly stiff and numb, but I've seen it get better with time.” She pushed back her braid with a sniff. “I did not mean to be so harsh earlier. Monsieur Porthos does not seem the sort to be slowed by much and, for a while, slow is what he needs.”

Aramis barked a short laugh.

“You read him quite well, madame.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the boys get around to talking...and I nearly couldn't get them to shut up...

Porthos was still sleeping when Aramis returned to the room. Before Athos let himself out, he looked at Aramis with a heavy gaze.

“I think it is long past time for the two of you to have this discussion, don't you agree?” He left without waiting for a reply, not that Aramis had one.

But when Porthos awoke some time later, Aramis knew Athos was right. He helped Porthos sit up and then he settled next to the bed, gathering his thoughts.

Porthos' dark eyes were steady and expectant.

“It's my fault you're here.” Porthos made a derisive noise.

“I told you then and I'll tell you now. I didn't come out here to punish you. I just needed some time.”

“But you needed to be away from me. Because of what I did.”

“Don't know. Feels more like 'cause of what you didn't do,” said Porthos. “All you had to do was tell me.”

Aramis took a deep breath.

No more lies.

“I should have. So I'll tell you now. Do you remember me speaking of Isabel? My betrothal?” Porthos thought for a moment before he nodded.

“Yeah, from years back. She disappeared.”

“I searched for her. Her father never told me where she was. But she was there,” said Aramis softly. “Isabel was there, in that monastery.” He watched understanding fill Porthos' face. “She'd been a nun since she vanished from my life. When Gallagher's men breached the cellar, she was killed,” said Aramis. “That night, in the darkness and the sadness, the Queen came to me. She was kind and beautiful and...” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “For all I knew, you and d'Artagnan were dead and there was no help coming. Anne was a warm comfort. I cannot bring myself to repent it. All I am sorry for is not telling you.”

“I'm sorry 'bout Isabel. And I understand why you slept with the Queen,” said Porthos. “You love, even when you shouldn't. It's who you are.” Porthos shrugged lightly. “Jumpin' out windows, runnin' through gardens and dodging angry husbands. The whole lot of it.”

“You love and you accept. Long as I've known you. Every woman, every liaison. Every brother in arms. You just...love. The first day I walked into the garrison, you set out to be my friend. No one else in that place wanted to be near me, but you? Acted like I was just late and you'd been waitin' on me all along.”

 _'I had been_ ,' was what Aramis wanted to say. But he couldn't bring himself to interrupt Porthos, who rarely spoke like this.

“Growin' up in the The Court, everybody fought hard enough to look out for themselves. Couldn't be hopin' someone would take care of you. Even family didn't hold much sway when you're just tryin' to survive. Affection was just a tool. When I came to the Musketeers and met you...” Porthos shook his head. “Do you know how hard it was to believe that another man would fight for me as fiercely as himself? You made me think it might be possible.” Porthos shut his eyes, pain flashing across his face. “I finally believed I'd found a family.”

“I never wanted to betray your belief. I would do anything,” proclaimed Aramis, “ _anything_ to never have kept this from you. I know what trust costs you.” He looked down, unable to bear the weight of sadness in Porthos' eyes.

“You're right. I love too much. I loved Isabel. She fled from me and she lived a peaceful life in service to God and her order. In mere hours of being in my presence again, she was dead. So was Marsac. I loved Adele and she disappeared. I want to believe she's happy on some country estate, but...” Aramis shook his head sadly. “I fear the worst. I love Anne and should the King or the Cardinal ever discover what we did, she will be dead and it will be my fault.” He forced himself to look up.

“Perhaps you were right to distance yourself from me. Everyone I love dies, Porthos.” He ran his hands through his hair and let them fall, helplessly. “All I wanted was to protect you,” Aramis finished in a broken whisper, “and look what has come of it.”

He waited, his heart heavy. When Porthos didn't say anything, Aramis nodded slightly and rose to go. Porthos' bound hand shot out and grabbed him, holding him in place. It must have hurt, but Porthos made no sound. Aramis carefully eased the fingers from around his wrist and cradled the wrapped hand gently in his own.

Porthos' dark eyes swept over him, searching, but he still said nothing. Aramis studied Porthos in return. The tight curls and dark skin. The lines from laughing and from worrying. The healing burns spotting his face. The old scars Aramis was certain he could find in the blackest night.

To deny Porthos was to deny himself. He'd been a fool to think it possible.

“What do you think,” began Porthos quietly, “would have happened, if you hadn't taken to me that first day?”

“Someone else would have.”

“Nah, don't think so,” said Porthos shaking his head. “You were the reason I could bear the looks and the whispers. What do you think would have happened to Athos if we hadn't looked after 'im?”

Aramis tried not to picture the things he'd already imagined, once or twice. Athos, dead in a bar or a ditch or a brawl or the river. Athos had wanted to punish himself. Aramis and Porthos had done their best to make it hard for him to accomplish it.

“Or d'Artagnan? If we wasn't there, either Athos would have killed him, or Athos would've let him win.”

Porthos looked at his bandaged hand, lying limp in Aramis' steady palms.

“You aren't cursed, any more than d'Artagnan, Athos or I am. We've all lost people. An' it brought us together.” He looked up at Aramis. “Would've, could've, should've. Don't matter. Here we are now.”

Aramis held himself very still, resisting the urge to grip Porthos' wounded hand. He couldn't bring himself to speak, to break this moment, to ask what he needed to know.

Luckily, Porthos knew his heart well enough.

“Don't know much about family. But I realize you were just trying to protect me. Can't hold somethin' against you that I try to do everyday. Just needed to figure out how not to be angry anymore.” Porthos scowled to cover up the beginning of a smile. “Don't get me wrong, you do this to me again, and I'll hit you so hard...”

Aramis couldn't stop the watery laugh that escaped his trembling lips.

“Never again.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

As Porthos made his way down the stairs into the common room, Athos could not help but smile. He was greeted with cheers and shouted greetings.

Porthos had followed Madame Tuel's instructions for the last few days and true to her word, she was allowing him downstairs. His hands were still wrapped, but they pained him less. And the smile on his face shone through the room. Athos surveyed the scene from his shadowed corner. There were still bandages here and red patches of skin there, but for the most part, the Musketeers were on the mend and getting restless.

Athos acknowledged Becotte as he joined him in his study of their men.

“It may be time to think about returning to Paris,” said Athos. Becotte closed his eyes for a moment and then turned to look at Athos.

“Rodes is going to die.” Athos blinked, but schooled his features.

“You are certain?” Becotte shook his head.

“Nothing is certain, but Madame Tuel does not give much hope. His injuries are too bad, too deep. They will not heal. He burns with fever that will not stop.”

Athos dipped his head. Rodes showed potential. Losing the young ones was always the hardest.

“He has family, does he not?” asked Athos quietly. “Perhaps we should take him home.”

“I will consult Madame Tuel. See if he will survive the trip or if he'll just die in pain on the way.” Becotte's voice was flat, resigned. Athos rested a hand briefly on his shoulder.

“I'm sorry.” Becotte nodded and cleared his throat.

“Perhaps you should tell Porthos.” Athos let his gaze travel across the room and settle on his tall friend. “He seems rather protective of the boy.”

“Porthos is rather protective of everyone,” agreed Athos quietly. “I will speak to him later.”

Later. Because for now the room was bright with smiles and Porthos' laughter rolled through it and Athos wished for it to continue a while longer.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Aramis looked up as Athos entered Rodes' room.

“Is everything alright downstairs?” asked Aramis. His tone was light, but Athos knew better.

“Porthos is fine. D'Artagnan is keeping an eye on him. How is Rodes?” Aramis' face clouded as he looked down at the young man.

“Not well.”

“Has he been aware?”

“Madame Tuel keeps him asleep mostly, but when he does wake...he's clearly pained. The fever has a strong hold on him.” Aramis looked at Athos. “You're thinking of returning to Paris.”

“Perhaps. I believe the majority are ready to ride. There is no reason for them to stay.”

“Porthos cannot ride yet.”

“Nor can Defour, his sight is still too cloudy. We could procure a wagon.”

“And young Rodes?”

“Becotte is speaking to Madame Tuel,” said Athos.

Aramis nodded and turned back to Rodes. He replaced the damn cloth on the sleeping man's head with a new one from the bowl at his side.

“We shall get you home,” said Aramis softly. “Fear not.”

Rodes showed no sign that he heard.

 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Madame Tuel shook her head vigorously, her braid whipping.

“If you take him, he'll die.”

“Will he die anyway?” asked Becotte. The healer looked at him sharply and turned as though to pace, but there was little space to do so in the small room where she, Athos, Aramis, and Becotte were meeting.

“Madame, we want your advice,” murmured Aramis, shooting Athos a look. “But we need to consider everything. Is there a chance we could deliver him to his family in Paris?” Her green eyes blazed as she studied Aramis.

“No,” she said finally. “The movement, the elements...he'll die. Or you'll wish for him to. Let me be very clear. The burns are as raw as they were the day they happened. His flesh is cold, even as he's burning of fever. He cannot eat. He can barely drink. His skin is like parchment.” She stepped closer to Aramis. “I don't believe you to be cruel, not you, a soldier who studies the healing arts. You deal in death, not in suffering. If you truly knew what lingering, terrible deaths looked like, you would not contemplate this.”

“I do.” They all turned to see Porthos, large in the small doorway. “I've seen people die of disease, of the cold. Waste away from no food and bad water. Rot and wither, for weeks.” He stepped fully into the room, his eyes stormy and challenging.

“Then tell them,” said Madame Tuel, not backing down. Aramis marveled as she put her hands on her hips and glared at Porthos “Tell them to let him die peacefully and then take him back to Paris.” Porthos looked around the room, at Athos and Aramis and Becotte and then finally back to the healer before him.

“Rodes wants to be a Musketeer. We don't tend to die peacefully in bed,” he said with something like pride even as Aramis saw the sorrow on his face. “Let's ask 'im what he wants.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This has grown into something I never intended...


	8. Chapter 8

The early morning sky was a blaze of pink and orange as Athos stepped out of the inn. Horses and men filled the yard, readying to return to Paris. Madame Tuel leaned against the edge of the well, an inscrutable expression on her face as she watched Athos approach.

He handed the healer a hefty purse. She bounced it lightly and narrowed her eyes at him.

“This is more money then I will see in a year.”

“Do you not think you've earned it?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She quirked a small grin.

“You make a good point, monsieur. I would be lying if I said Musketeers were easy patients.”

A quiet fell over the courtyard. Her green eyes darkened as the wooden coffin was loaded into the back of the waiting wagon.

Rodes had been confused when they went to speak to him, but he had made it clear he wanted to go home to his family. Athos thought it was probably merciful that he had died in the night before they had a chance to depart.

Athos could still see the look on Porthos' face when Aramis came to tell them that Rodes was gone.

“I'm sorry,” Madame Tuel murmured softly, dragging him from his thoughts.

“Rodes chose this. He wanted to be one of the King's Musketeers.” She turned the full weight of her gaze onto Athos.

“Tell me,” asked Madame Tuel, “does that help you to sleep at night?” There was no judgment, no derision in her tone. She merely looked curious, but behind the curiosity was a weariness Athos understood. Someone else who was tired of losing people.

Athos took a deep breath and allowed some of the steel to flow from his spine.

“As soldiers, we accept the danger, the likelihood that we will die in service to our country and our king. It is our duty. And our honor.” She nodded thoughtfully.

“Seems a cold comfort.”

“I did not say I slept well, Madame.” He bowed to her and pulled his hat down low. She smiled wryly and bobbed a curtsy.

“Travel safely, Monsieur Athos. Take care of them, don't let them undo my good work.”

“You have my word.”

 

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 

Porthos followed the Rodes' coffin out of the inn and watched as d'Artagnan and other the lads carefully loaded it into the wagon. The morning was lovely and clear, the sun rising steadily, cheerfully.

Didn't seem right.

Porthos shook himself and looked around, spotting Aramis readying his horse at the edge of the yard. There was one last thing, one last question. Porthos was a little ashamed of how long it had taken to come to him.

“The Queen is with child.” Aramis stiffened, his hands freezing on the straps of his saddle for a moment before carrying on, packing away the supplies Madame Tuel had given him.

“Yes.” Porthos tilted his head, his voice low.

“Is the baby yours?”

“The Queen seems to think so. But it must be possible that it isn't, else the King would have reacted very differently,” said Aramis with a sad smile. “It doesn't matter. The child may be mine, but I will never be its father.” The regret that thickened Aramis' voice plucked directly at Porthos' heart. Another baby lost to him, another baby that Aramis would never raise.

Porthos' fingers twitched, longing to touch his friend. Instead, he stepped close and caught Aramis' gaze.

“I'm sorry, Aramis.”

Aramis looked up at him and Porthos could read the depths of his hurt and the weight of his guilt. No secrets and no walls. For the first time since that damned monastery, Aramis was an open book to him.

As he should be.

“Isabel said I was not meant to have a family. Said it would have driven me crazy.” Aramis shook his head. “What would I know about being a father?”

“You're askin' the wrong man.” Aramis' face dropped, color rising to his cheeks, but Porthos held up a hand, halting whatever Aramis was going to say.

“Not sure what makes a good father or a good son,” explained Porthos steadily. “But I'm pretty sure I understand brothers.” He paused, to make sure Aramis would look at him. “Come what may, you're my brother, Aramis.”

Porthos watched warmth and gratitude overwhelm the sadness in Aramis' eyes.

“And you are mine,” agreed Aramis.

In the east, the sun unfailingly firing the sky with light no longer seemed misplaced.

 


End file.
